


got you stuck on my body

by DizzyRedhead



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, BDSM, BDSM Scene, Collars, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Sexual Submission, Oral Sex, Praise Kink, Public Hand Jobs, Riding Crops, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Spanking, Under-negotiated Kink, What Happened in Budapest, there's a lot going on okay?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-02 09:59:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8663032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DizzyRedhead/pseuds/DizzyRedhead
Summary: Phil isn't about to let on that he has Barton's soulmark; not when he knows full well that there's no way Barton has his. They're friends, and that's enough. Really.Clint always knew he was a freak; having Coulson's soulmark when Coulson doesn't have his just confirms it. But he'll take what he can get. Being friends is more than enough. Really.When the two of them are trapped in Budapest, going undercover in a BDSM club seems to be their only chance to complete their mission. Only it seems more and more like neither of them is playing a role





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [litra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/litra/gifts).



> For litrapod, who asked for dom/sub, soulmates, tattoos, and casefic (sorry I couldn't shoehorn in any more of what you asked for!) and prompted "Soulmate AU. Maybe colors and Clint doesn't realize it's Phil because his suits are so b/w.... Or the words except one or both were drunk/concussed/distracted and so they don't realize it until someone goes back over the security footage and/or during the briefing."
> 
> It's not exactly what you asked for, but I hope this works!!!
> 
> Heavily inspired by [The Underground by Raiining](http://archiveofourown.org/works/660977/chapters/1205558) and [The Temple of Bondage by sabinelagrande](http://archiveofourown.org/works/393206/chapters/645847)

“Welcome to SHIELD, Agent Barton,” Phil said, offering his hand.

Barton eyed him across the scarred diner table, his eyes suspicious, but finally clasped Phil’s hand in his own.

Phil’s extensive practice in keeping a poker face was the only thing that stopped his instinctive reaction to the burning sensation across his left bicep. _Oh, no_ , he thought. _Not now._

“We will, of course, be tending to your bullet wound,” he said, his voice as outwardly bland as possible.

Barton snorted. “I hope so, since you’re the one who fucking shot me.”

Phil arched an eyebrow at him. Junior agents quaked in their boots at that look, but Barton just lounged back in his side of the booth, twirling his butter knife between his fingers, his lips twisted in an insolent smirk. “Do you have any other medical issues that will require attention?”

“Nah, I’m good,” the other man drawled.

Phil wasn’t disappointed that Barton didn’t have his mark. He _wasn’t._ Phil Coulson, Agent of SHIELD, didn’t have time for the distraction of a soulmate, especially not a smartass sniper with gorgeous eyes and a fantastic ass. Being mismatched was easier. Simpler.

He repeated that to himself as he arranged for Barton’s intake and initial medical care. As he filled and filed the paperwork, closing the case on his 3-year pursuit of one Clint Barton, codename Hawkeye, sharpshooter extraordinaire.

He told himself that all the way home. He almost changed out of his suit without looking, but Phil tried not to lie to himself, so he hung up his tie, dropped his white shirt in the laundry hamper, and went into the bathroom to see.

The arrow wrapped almost all the way around his arm, beautifully detailed, but still gray. He looked at it for a long moment, let himself wonder just for a second what colors it would be if he was Barton’s soulmate.

But he wasn’t. Phil turned away from the mirror.

* * *

Clint thought he did a pretty good job of hiding his surprise when he finally got a good look at the mark on his chest. After the nurse had stitched up the wound on his calf, they’d done what they insisted was a standard recruitment physical. It was for damn sure the most thorough workup he’d ever had, but there was some small mercy in the fact that everyone assumed the mark was just a tattoo.

He couldn’t pay too much attention to it, though, not without tipping them off that it was something more. No way did he want word getting back to Agent Stick-Up-My-Ass Coulson that Clint had a new soulmark. Especially since there was no way Coulson had Clint’s mark. It would be Clint’s little secret; he was enough of a freak without everyone knowing he was mismatched.

All he could see out of the corner of his eye was that it was big and circular. Finally, finally all the tests and paperwork were done--for today, they informed him ominously--and Clint was tucked into a temporary quarters room that, even though it was clearly small and minimal by SHIELD standards, was cleaner and bigger than at least ninety percent of the places he’d ever slept. He turned on the water in the small, efficient shower for the benefit of whatever cameras might be watching (he didn’t fool himself that there weren’t any) before stripping down, letting his eyes casually fall on the mirror.

It… the soulmark… wasn’t what he would’ve expected. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, really. But Coulson had seemed so...not cold, exactly, but very closed down. He was a lock, maybe, or a door. Something simple, maybe even boring on the surface. Something that hinted at the hidden depths Clint was fairly sure lurked behind the bland, everyman smile that Coulson wielded like a scalpel.

Instead, Captain America’s shield spanned the width of Clint’s left pectoral muscle. All in shades of gray, of course; Clint hadn’t expected anything else. But it looked so real, like Clint could reach up and feel the bullet scars marring the surface.

The bathroom filled with steam, the mirror finally fogging over, so Clint stepped into the shower, resolutely not wondering what color Agent Coulson’s soulmark would turn if someone like him could actually be Clint’s.

Maybe blue. Like his eyes.

* * *

“Specialist Barton, reporting as ordered,” Barton said, standing at offensively correct attention in front of Phil’s desk.

Phil didn’t sigh, no matter how much he wanted to. After five years of working together, he knew perfectly well that every bit of Barton’s current behavior was an exquisitely crafted “fuck you.” Reacting visibly only made it worse, as several AICs had learned the hard way.

“Dr. Wilton informs me that you’re recovering at a normal rate,” Phil said mildly.

Barton evidenced no reaction, his entire body sniper-still, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere above Phil’s right shoulder.

“You’ll be back in the field within another two weeks.” Phil paused. “Unless, of course, you get demoted to support operations because you can’t stop harassing the junior agents.”

“Helping them improve their situational awareness,” Barton corrected him. They could both feel the space at the end of the sentence, the one that usually would be filled with ‘sir.’ No one at SHIELD had ever heard Barton say that word. Phil didn’t fool himself that he’d be the first, no matter what quiet fantasies he might harbor in a secret corner of his brain.

Phil sighed. “Keeping them on their toes is one thing. But we’ve had a significant percentage request anti-anxiety medication.”

Barton remained stubbornly silent.

“Barton.” Phil paused, reconsidering his approach. This wasn’t the military, no matter how Barton was acting. Sometimes SHIELD had to embrace...unique solutions. The question was whether Phil could do this professionally, without letting his feelings get in the way. “Clint.”

Clint’s gaze snapped to Phil’s, wide and startled and so blue. It wasn’t much of a reaction, but Phil had worked with less.

“I know you’re not used to this kind of inactivity,” Phil continued. “And I know it’s terrible. Sometime you should ask Jasper about the time I managed to break both of my wrists. But I have an idea that might help. If you trust me.”

“I do,” Clint answered without hesitation, his eyes unwavering.

Phil had to compose himself, to restrain his reaction to that instantaneous declaration before it showed on his face. “I need to be very clear about the fact that you can leave at any time. All you have to do is tell me to stop. It won’t affect our working relationship, or your continued status as an agent. Do you understand?”

Clint’s eyebrows shot up his forehead. “You planning to tie me up, Coulson?”

It should be a joke. It sounded like a joke, Clint’s tone casually teasing. But Phil was observant enough to see the way Clint’s pupils dilated, the way his breath quickened. “I don’t think I’ll have to,” he said mildly. “I think you want to be good for me.”

“I--” Clint closed his eyes, swallowed. When he spoke again, his voice was a plea. “Fuck. Coulson.”

“Come here,” Phil said firmly.

Clint circled the desk until he stood in front of Phil, waiting.

Phil took a breath. “On your knees, Clint.”

Nothing in his life to this point had adequately prepared Phil Coulson for watching Clint Barton go to his knees. He’d seen Clint in action, seen the things that powerful body can do. Seeing him on his knees, all that grace and power contained--for Phil--was a heady thing. Phil had to take a moment to rein himself in. This wasn’t about him, about the still-gray soulmark on his arm or the roughly planet-sized crush he has on Clint. This was about Clint; about what he needed.

“Good,” Phil said. Despite his best efforts, his voice came out rough, lower than usual. “Good, Clint.”

Clint’s eyes slid closed again and he breathed deeply, his shoulders relaxing down away from his ears just a fraction. Even Phil hadn’t fully realized the tension Clint had been carrying until now, when some of it drained away.

“I’m going to grab something, but I’ll be right back,” Phil said, not wanting to startle Clint when he stood. The archer just hummed an acknowledgment, his eyes still closed.

Phil pushed his chair back and circled to to the other side of the desk. He couldn’t quite resist touching Clint’s shoulder lightly as he passed, just an acknowledgment that he was entering the other man’s space. He wasn’t prepared for the way Clint leaned into the touch, like a cat asking to be petted. Phil firmed his touch, let his fingers trail over Clint’s back, and was rewarded with another of those infinitesimal relaxations.

He dragged himself away and over to the couch, taking a cushion and the soft purple throw that had appeared there one day. He returned to his desk and arranged the cushion underneath, thankful for once that the massive surface left a lot of open space underneath. Phil settled back in his chair and let himself take one selfish minute to appreciate the sight of Clint on his knees.

“Clint,” he said quietly. “Open your eyes.”

Clint obeyed almost immediately, but Phil could see that his eyes had already lost some of their customary sharpness. His eyes were the only thing that moved though, his hands relaxed on his thighs as he knelt on the floor like he could stay there forever, unless Phil told him otherwise.

But Phil wasn’t about to pass up the chance to pamper Clint a little. “Come sit here,” he ordered, pointing to the cushion he’d set down next to where Clint was kneeling. “You can kneel or sit, but be sure it’s a position you can hold comfortably for awhile.”

For a minute, as Clint looked steadily back at him, Phil thought he’d gone too far, but then Clint shifted wordlessly to sitting cross-legged on the cushion, his spine curving and his body relaxing even further as he settled into the enclosed space under the desk.

“Good,” Phil praised again, draping the throw around Clint’s shoulders before sliding his chair back under the desk. “If you can sit there quietly for me while I finish these reports, we’ll go get pie afterward. Can you be good for me, Clint?”

“Yes,” Clint answered hesitantly. His mouth opened again, but no words came out.

“You can ask me questions if you want,” Phil said.

Clint sagged in relief, listing to the side until he was leaning on Phil’s leg. “Are you--do you--” he paused for a second, visibly gathering his thoughts, his voice low and plaintive when he finally spoke again. “Don’t you want to fuck me?”

Phil sent up a prayer for strength to whatever deities might be listening. And while he was at it, a prayer that Clint hadn’t noticed the way Phil was instantly half-hard in his slacks. “Clint, I’m your SO. We’re doing this to help you calm down, to redirect some of that energy you’ve been using to terrorize the junior agents. If it doesn’t work, we can try something else, or if you’d rather someone else do it--”

“No!” Clint interrupted, flinching almost immediately.

Phil laid a hand on his shoulder, doing his best to radiate calm and comfort and not an intense desire to hunt down every person who’d ever hurt Clint and make them pay. “If this was a sexual encounter, how could you ever be sure that you were allowed to say no without consequences to your career? That’s not what this is about. It would be incredibly inappropriate and unprofessional for me to make it sexual.”

Clint pouted a little, but apparently subsided. For the sake of his sanity, Phil decided to pretend he hadn’t heard Clint mutter “What if I want you to?” under his breath.

“Relax. Breathe. Pie,” Phil said firmly. He wasn’t sure if he was telling Clint or himself.

They sat in silence for a minute, the only sound the tapping of Phil’s keyboard as he tried his hardest to remember what he’d been doing. “Is this okay?” Clint asked, gesturing to where he leaned against Phil’s leg.

Phil couldn’t resist running his hand through Clint’s hair once, then again when the other man leaned into the touch. “That’s fine, Clint. You’re being so good for me.”

All the remaining tension bled out of Clint on a sigh. Phil did his best to return his attention to his reports. He was eventually successful, but he never stopped being aware of where the warmth of Clint’s body pressed against his calf, Clint’s head leaning on his knee.

Even after pie, after dropping Clint off in Bed-Stuy before driving home, after crawling into his empty bed, Phil could still feel that warmth, like a phantom limb.

If he got himself off, fast and rough, to the memory of Clint on his knees, of Clint saying “What if I want you to?”--well, no one had to know.

* * *

Clint ripped his armguard off and threw it across the hotel room. “Fuck!!!”

“Essentially,” Coulson agreed mildly. Normally Clint appreciated his unflappable calm, because when everything was going to shit, you wanted the man in your ear to sound like he knew exactly what was going on and what you needed to do to come through in one piece. Coulson’s voice, calm and steady, was usually the safety line that Clint clung to, following it out of whatever mess he was in the middle of.

But right now, that perfect agent facade was just another thing buzzing against Clint’s nerves, because they were well and truly fucked. They'd achieved their objective; the mastermind who’d been more than halfway through preparing for a biological attack was dead, but that was the only thing that had gone right. One of his henchmen had escaped with his notes, the rest were almost certainly coming after Clint, and the Hungariann authorities had caught just enough of a whiff to lock the country down tight. They’d gotten out of rougher spots before, but it was going to take time that they didn't have, time in which those notes got further away by the second.

Clint wasn’t usually this self-destructive, but right now all he wanted is to crack Coulson’s bland, inoffensive outer shell and get a reaction, any reaction. If there’s one thing that ten years with SHIELD has taught him (that _Coulson_ has taught him), though, it was when to rein in his impulses. So he took a deep breath, blowing it out through his nostrils. “What now?”

“I have a contact who can get us out of the country,” Coulson said, his tone uncharacteristically hesitant. “We might be able to get a lead on those notes, too.”

“What’s the catch?” Clint might not be particularly smart, but even he could read the reluctance Coulson was putting off.

Coulson frowned. “The persona I have in place is...unusual. I can bring you with me, but we might have to do some things you’d find unpleasant.”

It was Clint’s turn to frown. “Can you stop talking around it and just tell me? Are we talking shooting baby bunnies unpleasant or torturing people for information unpleasant?”

“Neither.” Coulson took a slightly deeper breath. “My persona is known in underworld circles as someone who’s heavily involved in the BDSM scene as a Dominant. If I bring you as my submissive, no one will question it. But we might need to do at least one public scene to establish your cover. My contacts are suspicious of newcomers.”

Clint barked out a laugh, doing his best to pretend that he wasn’t half-hard already just from imagining what a ‘public scene’ would entail. “Hell, is that all? I’ve done worse for a cover, and you know it.”

“Clint.” Coulson waited until Clint met his eyes. “We’ve blurred some boundaries before. This will be different.”

“I trust you,” Clint said, doing his best to convey the same message with his eyes. “Sir.”

Coulson closed his eyes for a minute, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “All right,” he said evenly, opening them again. “I’ll need to pick up some things. Dispose of as much of the equipment as you can while I’m gone. We won’t be taking much with us.”

The door closed behind him as he left without waiting for a response. Clint busied himself with his assigned task, doing his best not to think about what might be coming.

* * *

“How do I look?” Clint asked.

Phil stepped out of the ensuite bathroom and instantly gave thanks for the ten years of practice he’d had in hiding his attraction to Clint Barton. The archer wore a tight black t-shirt, so thin that it clung to every dip and ridge of muscle. The v-neck dipped down low enough to show where the hollow between his pecs began, and equally tight jeans hugged his muscular legs and that spectacular ass.

“Kinda surprised,” Clint said, twisting around to get a good look at himself in the mirror. “I figured you’d put me in leather pants and one of those harness things. What’s the matter, boss? You don’t wanna show me off?”

“It’s cold outside,” Phil said mildly, like half the blood in his body hadn't just drained into his cock, picking up the bag with his purchases. “And leather pants aren’t very forgiving; I don’t want you to split them down the middle if we have to run for it. I do have some leather for you, though. To complete the look.”

Clint’s eyes lit up. “Oooh, presents.”

Phil shook his head, opening the box to reveal a pair of wide leather cuffs in dark purple. At first glance they looked like nothing more than decorative accessories, but there was no way Clint’s sharp eyes missed the small rings where they could be attached to a restraint or clipped together.

“Not black?” Clint asked, stroking a finger lightly over the butter-soft leather.

Phil shrugged, not wanting to admit how many stores he’d gone to before he found the purple. “You’ve got plenty of black already.”

“Will you put them on me?” Clint’s voice was hesitant; he kept his eyes on the cuffs, his shoulders hunched a little like he was expecting a rejection.

“Of course,” Phil said, grateful that his voice came out somewhat normally. He picked up one of the cuffs, undoing the buckle and reminding himself that it was perfectly valid for Clint to ask for help. Fastening something with a buckle onto your own wrist was difficult at best; easier for someone with two hands free to do it.

None of that mattered in the slightest to the dark, possessive part of Phil’s brain. The part that had sent him from store to store until he found the perfect set of cuffs. The part that wanted nothing more than for all of this to be real. But it wasn’t real. Clint was playing a part--pretending. Just like he’d pretended to be a bartender, or an escort, or a bodyguard, or any of the myriad other cover identities he’d taken on.

Phil buckled first one cuff, then the other, around Clint’s wrists, taking his time and making sure the leather fit snugly enough to keep it from sliding around, but not so tightly as to be uncomfortable. Clint stayed surprisingly silent throughout the process, letting Phil move him as needed, his whole body pliant in a way that was painfully familiar from their calming sessions in Phil’s office. Finally, Phil forced himself to stop running his fingers over the leather and step back.

“Is that it?” Clint asked, one thumb rubbing absently over the cuff on his opposite wrist.

“There’s--” Phil had to stop and clear his throat. “There’s a collar, too. They’ll expect you to be wearing one; my cover wouldn’t let his submissive come to a club without one--”

Clint raised a hand, cutting off Phil’s half-defensive explanation before it could become a full-blown babble. “Coulson, it’s fine. I figured it’d be something like that. Can I see?”

Phil pulled the flat box out of the shopping bag and opened it. “It matches the cuffs,” he said, annoyed with himself because Clint would have already seen that.

“Yeah,” Clint breathed, reaching out to lift the collar out of the box. “Damn, Coulson, this must’ve been expensive. I hope the credit card isn’t maxed out or you’re gonna have to fill out a shit-ton of paperwork when we get back. Put it on me?”

Phil’s ears warmed as he took the collar, praying once again to deities he didn’t believe in that Clint never found out he’d tapped into one of his own accounts to buy the collar and cuffs. It was so, so pathetic, but he hadn’t been able to resist the urge to make it at least a little real.

Clint tilted his head back, baring his neck. Phil willed his hands not to shake as he looped the collar around, threading the end through the buckle and pulling it closed. “How tight do you want it?” he asked, doing his best to ignore the way his knuckles brushed the warm skin of Clint’s neck, the way the pulse beat in the hollow at the base of his throat.

“I don’t want it loose, it’ll just rub a blister,” Clint said, his voice a little softer than usual. “That’s good.”

Phil let himself have one more selfish moment, running his finger under the collar to be sure nothing was pinching or catching before he stepped back. “Okay. Let’s go.”

Clint’s eyes widened. “Coulson, wait! You haven’t told me anything about this, how I’m supposed to act, anything. I’m gonna blow the whole thing and we’re gonna end up in a Hungarian prison!”

“You know everything you need to know,” Phil murmured, hooking a finger in the D-ring on the front of Clint’s collar and tugging a little, just to watch his eyes go wider still. “All you have to do is be good for me. Can you do that, Clint?”

Clint nodded wordlessly.

Phil let go of the collar after one final tug. “Good.”

He turned and walked out the door, feeling Clint fall into step behind him without needing to look.

 _Please_ , he begged the probably nonexistent deities. _Just let me get us out of this without fucking things up._

But even as he thought it, part of him was still lost in the memory of Clint wearing his collar and cuffs.

* * *

“Remember,” Coulson said under his breath as they stepped onto the raised lounge area overlooking the dance floor. “Do what I tell you and we’ll be fine.”

He set out across the floor without waiting for a response, settling into an oversized armchair and indicating the cushion at his feet with an almost-invisible gesture. Clint sank down onto it. Leaning into Coulson’s leg was habit at first, but after a look around the room, he realized he was maybe more prepared for this role than he thought, what with all the time he’d already spent kneeling at Coulson’s feet. People were looking at them, but not like they didn’t fit in, just the normal curiosity when someone new enters a small social circle.

Clint looked around curiously, but aside from the outfits, this didn’t seem all that extreme. People were eating and drinking, some sitting on the floor or on a lap instead of a normal seat, but it could have been any bar in any city, albeit one with a very relaxed dress code, given the number of nearly-naked people, and a few that weren’t wearing anything.

“This is the social area,” Coulson murmured, threading his fingers through Clint’s hair. Clint had to fight the urge to slip into that hazy space where he didn’t have to think; for this, he needed to be alert. “Public scenes happen on that stage; the blue doors there lead back to the play area for private or semi-private encounters. We--”

“Mr. Coleman!” An elegantly dressed woman approached them, settling into the chair across from Coulson and sweeping her skirts aside for the young man on her leash to sit at her feet. “It’s been too long.”

“Ms. Silvestrova,” Coulson answered. His hand stroked down over Clint’s hair and wrapped around the back of his neck. Clint let himself slide into sniper-awareness; Coulson might sound relaxed to the casual listener, but Clint could feel the tension in his leg, in his grip. “Sadly, my business hasn’t brought me back to Budapest for some time. But once it did, I couldn’t leave without visiting your excellent establishment.”

The woman smiled. “And I see you have a new pet. He’s quite lovely. Did you find him locally?”

“Ah, no, Clint has been traveling with me for some time,” Coulson said, his voice slightly amused. “I wouldn’t have thought he’d be to your taste.”

Looking at the young man sitting across from him, Clint agreed silently. The boy couldn’t have been older than twenty, fashion-model pretty and leanly muscled, with smooth, unmarked skin left exposed by the leather jockstrap that was his only clothing. A bigger contrast to Clint’s craggy face and utilitarian build would be difficult to imagine.

Silvestrova waved her hand airily. “Well, you know, sometimes one craves a bit of variety. Any chance you could be persuaded to let me have a turn? We could trade, if you wish.”

Coulson’s hand tightened warningly on Clint’s neck, the skin-warmed leather of the collar pressing just a little harder. The sensation was strangely comforting. “I’m afraid I don’t share. I’m surprised you wouldn't remember.”

Clint had to fight hard to keep the sudden stab of jealousy off his face. SHIELD agents did a lot to establish cover identities, but the idea of Coulson doing this with someone else--he shoved that thought to the back of his mind for later. Or never. Never was good. _He’s not yours, dumbass._

“Can’t blame a girl for trying,” the woman said. “Will you at least be playing this evening? Give us all a chance to look, if we can’t touch?”

“Perhaps,” Coulson said, for all the world like he was actually considering it for the first time, like they hadn’t discussed this possibility beforehand. “We’ll see. I’m actually here on a business matter, but there’s nothing to stop me from mixing business and pleasure. But I’m not certain Clint is ready for a public scene.”

His thumb started stroking idly over the side of Clint’s throat, just above the collar. There was nothing overtly sexual about the touch, but Clint had been half-hard since Coulson buckled the cuffs around his wrists. He could feel his cock filling, getting harder from nothing but Coulson’s thumb brushing his neck, for fuck’s sake. He couldn’t even focus on what Coulson and the woman were talking about any longer, their conversation fading into a buzz of words that seemed incredibly far away, unimportant.

He closed his eyes and breathed slowly, evenly, trying to get himself under control. That was even worse; without the distraction of sight, Coulson’s touch was the only thing keeping him grounded, the firm hand on his neck, the warm, muscled leg he leaned against. Clint shuddered as he realized just how much he wanted, how close that want was to the surface. _This was such a bad idea._

His eyes flew open, blinking against the dim lighting, when Coulson tugged him to his feet.

“Come on,” Coulson said, his voice rich and amused. “Let’s go play.”

Clint followed him toward the blue double doors like there was an actual, physical leash connected to his collar instead of Coulson’s simple expectation of obedience. The tight denim of his jeans was uncomfortably constricting on his cock, his erection completely unaffected by the nerves coiling in his gut. If anything, the uncertainty was making him harder, which was something Clint had not known about himself.

_Such a bad idea._

* * *

Phil tried not to lie to himself. He knew he was possessive, prideful even, and that those qualities could be a problem if left unchecked. But right now, walking into the play area with Clint at his side, he couldn’t bring himself to care. He squelched the little voice that insisted on reminding him that none of this was real. If this was all he ever got of Clint, he was goddamn well going to enjoy it.

He felt Clint’s unease more than saw it; no one else would have noticed the slight hitch in the other man’s step as he got the full effect of the play area, wide open but organized into areas around different equipment. A blonde woman was cuffed naked to the St. Andrew’s cross on their left, her lushly curved body shuddering as a taller woman in a corset brought a flogger down on her back, raising a lovely pink color to the surface of her pale skin. Directly ahead of them, a petite Vietnamese woman in a black dress was demonstrating Shibari on a muscular, kneeling man with a truly impressive mustache, her fingers flying through the knots.

Phil rested a hand on the small of Clint’s back, leaning closer to speak directly in his ear. “We’re not going to do anything too extreme. Just like in my office, if you say stop, we stop.”

“What…” Clint swallowed, his throat working. “What if I just need to stop for a minute, not all the way?”

“Traffic lights,” Phil said, his fingers flexing against the thin fabric of Clint’s shirt. “Green means you’re good to go, yellow means slow down or stop for a minute, red is stop completely.”

Clint nodded. “Okay. What are we doing?”

Phil arched an eyebrow. “I’m making the decisions, you’re doing what you’re told. Clear?”

“Yes, Sir,” Clint murmured, dropping his eyes to the floor.

Phil had to close his own eyes for a minute and mentally recite the SHIELD regulations on weapons storage to calm himself down a little. When he opened them again, he was fairly certain his slacks weren’t doing anything to hide the fact that his cock was still rock-hard, but there was nothing he could do about that at the moment. Besides, it would add verisimilitude to what they were doing here.

“With me,” he said, walking toward a padded section of wall without bothering to check if Clint was following. He didn’t have to; he could feel the other man at his back, exactly where he was supposed to be.

“Strip,” Phil ordered, turning toward Clint in time to catch the way his eyes widened, darting around the room, probably cataloging the number of people and how many were watching (most of them).

“Clint,” he said, enough snap of command in his voice to bring Clint’s attention back to him. “Don’t worry about them. They don’t matter. You’re doing this for me. Are you going to be good for me tonight?”

Clint nodded wordlessly, curling his hands in the hem of his t-shirt and stripping it over his head. He folded it neatly and set it on the small table he found nearby, looking at Phil for approval as his hand went to the button of his jeans.

“Good,” Phil said, making his voice as reassuring as he could “You’re so good for me, Clint, you’re doing so well.”

He watched in awe as a shudder rippled through Clint’s body at the praise. He was peripherally aware of the people watching them, the small audience that had begun to coalesce, but he ignored them. He watched greedily as Clint peeled his jeans off, folded them, and set them on top of his shirt before repeating the process with his boxers.

He stood, waiting, his back straight, his shoulders relaxed and his hands loose at his sides. Phil let his eyes rake over Clint’s naked body, indulging himself in a way he never had before. He’d seen Clint naked before, of course; SHIELD agents lost any pretense of body shyness fairly quickly, but the penalties for excessive ogling of one’s fellow agents were swift and brutal.

But now, for this moment, Clint was his, standing proudly in his collar and cuffs. Phil shoved down the familiar pang at the sight of the shield tattooed on Clint’s chest and focused on the sharply defined muscles of his arms, his chest, the tight lines of his abs. His cock was hard, red and flushed and curved downward, heavy against his muscled thigh, and Phil felt something inside him unclench at the visible evidence that Clint was just as into this as he was.

“Face the wall,” Phil ordered.

Clint turned without question and Phil got lost for just a minute in the way his muscles flexed as he moved, down his back, his ass, his legs. He got to look, this time; just for tonight, he was allowed, and he drank it in greedily.

Phil realized suddenly that Clint was still standing, facing the wall, waiting for him. He moved closer, close enough that he could feel the heat radiating off Clint’s naked skin even through the fabric of his dress shirt and slacks, crowding him against the wall.

“Always so good for me,” he murmured, running his hands down Clint’s arms until his fingers found the cuffs. He wrapped his fingers around the soft leather, lifting Clint’s hands and pressing the palms to the wall.

Clint obeyed the wordless command, keeping his hands flat against the wall. He didn’t flinch when Phil clipped the cuffs to the waiting chains, but Phil could feel the fine tremors running through his body.

“Color?” Phil asked softly.

“Green,” Clint replied instantly, his voice equally soft. “Green, Sir, please--”

“Shhh,” Phil soothed, running his fingers over the collar before stepping back. “I’ll take care of you. You can make as much noise as you want, understand? I want to hear you.”

Clint shivered. It almost looked like fear, but Phil had seen Clint face down torture and certain death with a smirk on his face and a bad joke on his lips. This wasn’t what fear looked like; not for Clint. The little roll of his hips as he tried to get friction against the wall was proof enough.

“None of that,” Phil snapped, his right hand cracking down on Clint’s ass before he could think. His left fisted in Clint’s hair, tugging his head back. “Who decides when you get to come?”

“You do, Sir,” Clint stuttered out.

Phil’s hand tightened involuntarily in Clint’s hair as the words went straight to his cock; they hadn’t rehearsed that, hadn’t even discussed it. Clint just… said it, like something out of Phil’s darkest, most secret fantasies

“That’s right,” he crooned, pulling Clint back until his hands were the only part of him touching the wall. His back was arched, his ass on display, Phil’s handprint reddening one cheek. He couldn’t resist rubbing his hand over the skin, feeling the heat there, squeezing until Clint whimpered. “Good boys get to come. Are you going to be good for me, Clint?”

“Yes, Sir,” Clint practically sobbed.

“Good, good,” Phil repeated, his hands still moving over Clint’s ass. He indulged himself until Clint was squirming and shaking under his hands, letting the anticipation build and build before letting one hand come down onto the other cheek, harder this time.

Clint shuddered under the blow, whimpering again, but between his legs, Phil could see the way his cock twitched, the slow drip of precum onto the floor as Clint’s hips rolled, desperately seeking any kind of stimulus for his poor, neglected cock.

Phil spanked him again and again, until he’d lost count of the number, covering Clint’s entire ass with a warm, pink glow. Until his entire world had narrowed down to Clint, shaking and moaning under his hands. Clint’s cock was so hard it had to hurt; Phil was distantly aware of the way his own erection ached. But the only words that fell from his lips were, “yes” and “sir” and “please,” and every word, every noise just sent Phil higher.

He stepped back for a minute, eyeing his handiwork. Clint was amazing, perfect, but Phil needed more. He wanted more. Clint started to shake a little, so Phil moved back in, stroking his hands up Clint’s back, barely resisting the urge to wrap his arms around him.

“What’s your color?” he murmured, combing his hands through Clint’s hair. “Can you take a little more for me?”

“Yes, Sir,” Clint slurred. “So green, Sir. Whatever you want.”

Phil pressed a kiss to the back of his neck. “So good for me.” He stepped back again, instantly missing the solid warmth of Clint’s body against him, and went to the rack hanging from the wall nearby.

After a moment of deliberation he selected the riding crop, warming the flat leather end in his hand. He raised it, savoring the anticipation, then brought it down, cracking against Clint’s ass, then dragging the leather over the reddened skin before lifting it for another blow.

He watched Clint carefully, alert for any signs that he’d gone too far, done too much, but Clint looked like he could melt into the floor at any moment, like the only things holding him even mostly upright were the wall and Phil’s command.

Finally, Phil couldn’t take any more. He was distantly aware of the ache in his arm, but more aware of the need to take care of Clint, to give him what he needed. He threw the crop carelessly on top of Clint’s folded clothes, wrapping himself around the other man.

Clint hissed a little, the fabric of Phil’s slacks probably feeling uncomfortably rough against the sensitive skin of his ass, but he arched greedily back, pressing as closely against Phil as the cuffs would allow.

“You’ve been so good for me, Clint. Do you want to come?” Phil asked, his lips just brushing the shell of Clint’s ear.

“God, Sir, yes, please,” Clint babbled, shaking as though he’d forgotten all about his cock until Phil’s words reminded him.

Phil wrapped his arms around Clint, sliding hins hands slowly down his chest, over his abs, following that lovely groove of muscle down to his groin. “Not until I say,” he reminded, wrapping his hand around Clint’s cock, already slick with sweat and precome. “You’re mine, my good boy, Always so good for me. Come for me, Clint.”

Clint’s body stiffened almost before the words were out of Phil’s mouth, coming in hot, thick spurts onto the floor. Phil coaxed him through it, keeping his hand moving until the sounds coming out of Clint’s mouth became actually pained. He couldn’t resist grinding his own erection against Clint’s ass a little bit, but they couldn’t afford to both be distracted by orgasms right now.

Finally Clint sagged back against him, going almost limp. Phil reached up and unclipped the chains, sinking down onto the floor and pulling Clint into his lap, his heart wrenching as the archer curled into him, clinging to his shirt. The watching crowd dissipated, less interested now that the main show was over, and a staff member appeared next to them, proffering a blanket, a washcloth, and a still-sealed bottle of water, which Phil took with a murmured thanks. He cleaned Clint off as best he could before wrapping the blanket around him and coaxing him into taking sips from the bottle.

“Good,” Phil murmured, his free hand rubbing up and down Clint’s arm. “There you go, another little drink. You’re so good, Clint, just perfect.”

He kept the reassuring babble going until Clint uncurled, pulling away from him. He forced himself to let Clint go, standing up to retrieve his clothes from the bench where they were stacked and leading him to the dressing rooms where people could change into their clubwear or get dressed again after a scene. Clint kept the blanket wrapped around him the entire time, his eyes on the floor as they walked.

“Sorry I spaced on you,” Clint said after he came out of the dressing room cubicle, his voice a little rougher than usual. He wouldn’t meet Phil’s eyes.

“It’s fine,” Phil said, doing his best to ignore the way his heart sank. “It--you really sold our cover. You were really good.”

Clint sucked in a breath. “What now?” he said, clearly electing to ignore Phil’s word choice. “Do you need to talk to anyone else?”

“No,” Phil said. “No, I got what we needed. We can go.”

Clint just nodded, following him back out into the main area of the club, back out the door and into a cab. The vehicle was small enough that their shoulders brushed together in the back seat. Phil felt pathetic, but he couldn’t help being grateful that he still had this, that Clint was still comfortable enough with him not to flinch away.

It was a long, silent cab ride back to the hotel.

* * *

Clint ducked into the bathroom as soon as they got back to the hotel. He’d rushed through getting dressed at the club without looking in the mirror, terrified for some reason that Coulson would come in and notice. It was stupid, anyway. He’d probably just been imagining things. His whole fucking body had been going haywire, there was no way--

He closed the door firmly behind him, hesitating with his fingers on the hem of his t-shirt. “Don’t be a wuss,” he muttered, peeling the shirt off in one quick move. Like ripping off a band-aid.

His chest felt fine, now, normal, but Clint lifted shaking fingers to touch his mark--Coulson’s mark. It was ridiculous to deny it any more. Instead of the incredible, subtle black and gray shading Clint had grown used to over the past 10 years, the whole thing was now in full, glorious Technicolor, like Clint could pick it up and hurl it across the room, the shield set on a blue background. Clint knew that shade of blue, had seen it smiling at him from across desks and briefing room tables for 10 years.

His fingers fell away, but he couldn’t stop looking in the mirror. A mixture of hope and fear swirled in his gut, keeping him frozen. Marks only colored when the other person accepted the bond, even ignorant ex-carnies knew that, but that couldn’t be right. Clint wasn’t Coulson’s soulmate, he wasn’t, he would’ve known--

“Clint?” Coulson knocked on the bathroom door, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant. “Are you alright? I just--some people, after a scene like that, if they don’t get the care they need, they--it can be bad. I just, can I come in? I know maybe you’re not comfortable around me right now, and that’s fine, but--”

Clint yanked open the door, because seriously? Coulson could give lessons in self-flagellation to medieval monks. “No, Coulson, that’s not--”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have--” Coulson skidded to a verbal halt, his eyes resting on Clint’s chest. Oops. “That’s...not a tattoo.”

“Nope.” With the advantage of a few minute’s head start on the freak-out, Clint was actually almost enjoying this.

Whatever he’d been expecting, though, it wasn’t for Coulson to start unbuttoning his shirt. Shock held Clint wordless as Coulson shucked out of the white button-down, and then Coulson was holding out his own right arm.

Clint sucked in an audible breath. The arrow was beautifully detailed, a perfect replica of the very first one he’d ever shot, floating on a field of purple. He didn’t realize he’d reached out until his fingers brushed against Coulson’s bicep. He jerked them back.

“I didn’t know,” Coulson said hoarsely. “I thought it was just me--”

He reached out hesitantly, his hand hovering just over Clint’s chest, like he still somehow thought his touch might be unwelcome. Clint rolled his eyes and took a step forward until Coulson’s hand was flat against his chest, touching his mark, lifting his own hand to circle Phil's bicep.

It felt like snapping a dislocated bone back into place. Coulson--Phil was there, in the empty space Clint hadn’t realized he was carrying around. From the way his eyes widened, going warm and soft, he was willing to bet, he hoped, that the same had happened for Phil.

“Phil,” he said out loud, testing the name, the way it tasted on his tongue. “Phil. You have my mark.”

“Since the first day we met,” Phil confirmed. “You told me yours was a tattoo.”

Clint flushed, dropping his eyes. “I didn’t know. Thought it was just me.”

Phil’s other hand came up to his shoulder, warm and comforting, and a little thrilling, too, to have Phil’s hands on his bare skin. “Clint. Can I kiss you?”

He couldn’t help but laugh a little. Only Phil Coulson would ask for permission to kiss him even after finding out they’re soulmates, even after chaining him to a wall and spanking him and making him come. “Please,” Clint breathed. “Please, S--”

Phil cut him off before he could get the “Sir” out. Whenever Clint had imagined kissing Coulson-- kissing _Phil_ , he’d figured it would be exploratory. Not hesitant, exactly, but probably gentle.

What he got, though, was infinitely better. He got Phil dragging him in with firm hands until there was no space between them, the fuzz of Phil’s chest hair pleasantly crisp against his skin. He got Phil just fucking plundering his mouth, devouring Clint with the kind of single-minded intensity that Phil always brought to things that he thought were important.

One of Phil’s hands threaded through Clint’s hair, tilting his head to the side for a better angle. The other hand slid slowly down Clint’s bare back to curve possessively over his ass, squeezing just enough that Clint moaned into the kiss, melting into Phil’s embrace.

“We should talk,” Phil said, pulling back just a little. His hands stayed where they were, though, and Clint could feel Phil’s cock pressing hard against his thigh. “We should sit down and talk--”

“Or,” Clint interrupted, licking his lips and watching as Phil’s eyes zeroed in on his mouth, “you could take me to bed and fuck my brains out and we could talk after.”

Phil swallowed, his hand tightening on Clint’s ass. “This is a big step for both of us--”

Clint pressed his thigh a little harder against Phil’s erection and barely resisted doing a victory dance when Phil’s eyes fluttered closed, just for a second. “Phil. I made my choice. You did, too, or the marks wouldn’t have changed.”

“But--”

“We can talk now if you want, but it’s really simple. You said it yourself, earlier,” Clint persisted. “I’m yours.”

He could see the exact moment Phil’s self-control snapped and it was glorious. Phil growled, actually honest-to-God growled, and his hands pressed down. Clint went willingly to his knees, licking his lips again, and Phil’s hand clenched in his hair, the little tugs sending sparks of sensation dancing across his skin.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” Phil said, unbuttoning his slacks one-handed and tugging the zipper down.

“Probably about as long as I have,” Clint retorted, watching as Phil let his slacks fall to the floor, leaving him in a pair of white cotton boxers, his cock straining against the fabric. There was a damp spot at the head; Clint’s mouth watered and he only just stopped himself from leaning forward and trying to suck it into his mouth. “More since you started putting me on my knees to calm me down. God, Phil, the number of times I’ve jerked off imagining sucking you off under your desk--”

Phil shoved his boxers down with his free hand, his cock bobbing against his stomach. Clint surged forward, Phil’s hand in his hair bringing him up short.

“Are you sure?” Phil asked.

“You want me to beg for it?” Clint retorted, looking up at Phil and licking his lips again. He wasn’t above playing dirty. “I’ll do it. I jerked off thinking about that, too. Please, Sir--”

Phil wrapped his hand around the base of his cock and squeezed, but then he was pulling Clint forward. “Open,” he ordered hoarsely as the head brushed across Clint’s lips.

Clint obeyed, letting his mouth fall open. Phil thrust inside, not deep enough to choke him, but deep enough to be startling at first. He breathed through his nose and relaxed, letting Phil’s cock slide deeper, and Phil groaned above him.

“So fucking gorgeous like this,” Phil breathed, setting up a fast, hard rhythm. “Knew you would be, even before the first time you were on your knees for me. Had to jerk off, as soon as you left, every goddamn time--”

Clint hummed experimentally, just to see. Phil broke off, thrusting deeper, deep enough that the head of his cock hit the back of Clint’s throat. Clint swallowed, just to hear him groan again.

“So good for me,” Phil muttered, fucking his cock in and out of Clint’s mouth. “Always so good for me. And tonight--you were fucking spectacular. Kept trying to tell myself you were pretending, but I wanted--God, I wanted it--wanted you--fuck, I’m gonna come-- _Clint--”_

Phil froze above him as he came, hot-bitter-salty flooding Clint’s mouth. He sucked gently, swallowing, as Phil shuddered, coaxing two little aftershocks out of him before Phil was pushing him gently away.

“Jesus fuck,” Phil said fervently, folding down onto his knees until he was eye-to-eye with Clint. “I’m sorry, I should have warned you before--”

“I liked it,” Clint admitted, doing his best to ignore the erection pressing against his jeans that showed exactly how much he liked it.

Phil didn’t miss it, though, resting his hand over Clint’s mark for a second before skimming it down Clint’s bare chest, over his stomach, to the button of his jeans. “I didn’t get to see you,” he said quietly. “Before. In the club. I want to see your face this time, when I make you come.”

Clint nodded dumbly, all of his attention focused on those strong, sure fingers, just inches from where he wanted them. “Please,” he said, unable to remember other words. “Please, Sir--”

“I’ve got you,” Phil murmured, undoing the button and pulling the zipper carefully down, raising an eyebrow at the lack of underwear that allowed Clint’s cock to spring free. “Weren’t you wearing boxers earlier?”

“I was in a hurry,” Clint mumbled, but before he could be embarrassed, Phil’s hand was wrapping around his cock, driving every other thought out of his head. “Oh, fuck, Sir, _please--_ ”

Phil’s hand started to move, fast and just a little rough and absolutely perfect. “God, I love it when you beg me,” he said. “Are you really this far gone just from sucking me off?”

“Yes,” Clint gasped. “Wanted to for so long, shit, fuck, please, Sir, God, I need--”

“You need to come?” Phil’s voice was close to its normal blandly pleasant tone, and Clint had a moment’s desperate thought that he’d never be able to hear it again without getting turned on. “Ask me.”

“Please, Sir, let me come,” Clint babbled. He wasn’t actually sure he could keep from coming much longer, and he couldn’t tell if it was Phil’s hand on him or having to beg that was pushing him closer to the edge. “Fuck, please, oh, please, I need to, please, please, please--”

“Come,” Phil said quietly, and Clint was, coming before he’d even consciously recognized the word. It would have been terrifying, an orgasm that hard, that intense, but Phil’s hands were on him the whole time.

Phil coaxed him out of his jeans and into the hotel bed before Clint’s brain functions had fully come back online. All he remembered was protesting when Phil left the bed to get a washcloth to clean up with, and again when Phil tried to take the collar and cuffs off of him. He fell asleep before he came up out of the soft, hazy afterglow, wrapped up in Phil’s arms.

When he woke up the next morning, he still had one hand curled possessively over Phil’s bicep, Phil’s mark warm under his fingers. Phil just smiled, his own hand resting softly over Clint’s heart.

* * *

 Even having to shoot their way out of Budapest couldn’t put a damper on things. Even if Natasha did spend the next three years teasing them about their choice in honeymoon destinations.

**Author's Note:**

> Since I didn't spell it out in the fic, in this universe, a soulmark appears on your body the first time your soulmate's skin touches yours. Marks are of something important to your soulmate, or are a metaphor for who they are as a person. They appear as black and gray tattoos unless and until the other party accepts the bond, then they become full-color. Mutual soulmarks are the rule, but mismatching does happen (although there have been some very happy relationships with a "one-way" bond. There are also cases of people refusing/repudiating the bond, although that is religiously and, up until very recently, societally frowned upon.
> 
> Comments and kudos are much appreciated!!!


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